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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256492">Send Me An Angel</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BLKGURLSMUSE/pseuds/BLKGURLSMUSE'>BLKGURLSMUSE</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Walking Dead (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Declarations Of Love, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Forbidden Love, Friendship/Love, Gen, Love, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Multi, Not Beta Read, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, True Love, War</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:22:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con, Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,721</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29256492</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BLKGURLSMUSE/pseuds/BLKGURLSMUSE</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain Rick Grimes was critically injured in battle and is clinging to life. The war has robbed him of love and health. Michonne Miller is no stranger to pain as she has endured the tragic loss of a love. As she aids him on the road back to restored health, their relationship grows, and the possibility of happiness that neither of them thought possible.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Rick Grimes/Michonne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello All, I know this is a Richonne fic, however...In dedication to the frontline workers and servicemen and women.  I will be posting pictures of pretty nurses and handsome soldiers (BWWM) at the end of each chapter. Thank you all and I hope and pray everyone who is reading this is safe and well.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I'd been in the country for a little over a year in November 2002, when we got our new orders. Three battalions of the 101st Airborne Division were assigned to Operation Iraqi Freedom, including ours. Our objective was to secure the Karbala Gap, a key approach to Baghdad then secured the bridges over the Euphrates River. By September, just one week after it all began, the battalions had suffered staggering losses, with over three dozen killed or injured, including two of our four platoon leaders, and three of our four company commanders, myself included.</p><p>We had already been hit two times by the attack. Insurgents used various guerrilla tactics, including mortars, missiles, suicide attacks, snipers, improvised explosive devices (IEDs), car bombs, small arms fire (usually with assault rifles), and RPGs (rocket-propelled grenades) We were engaged in close combat with Taliban forces, and air support had been called in. I realized what was about to happen, and tried to radio it in, but couldn't get through. I ran out to alert my men to take cover, and that's when the third incident occurred. I remember the noise, the searing pain, and then nothing. Those are the last things I remember from that day.</p><p>There's a sound. It's inaudible, but I hear it. A faint beeping. I'm surrounded by black and the agony . . . the pain is unbearable. I want to scream, but I have no voice. Then there is an indescribable stinging sensation and nothing . . .</p><p>Voices. I can hear them, although they are quiet, whispering voices. The world is still dark, and there is pain, but not like before. I try to talk to them, to call out to the voices, but I feel the coldness and then nothing . . .</p><p>I'm floating in a timeless void and the voices are back. They whisper so I can't understand them. I want to touch my face, wipe my nose. It itches, but I have no fingers to scratch with. Fuck! Where are my fingers? Then I feel something, a cool hand, a touch.</p><p>"I'm here," I try to tell the hands, but they don't listen, and soon they're gone. And then nothing . . .</p><p>Pain! So much pain again, but it's in my fingers, and oddly, I want to laugh with joy because I still have my fingers. A part of me wonders where they went to and when they got back. The cool hands return, and they soothe me.</p><p>I hear a whispered, "shh, it's alright," and then nothing . . .</p><p>I hear voices again, but this time I can make out some of the words. "Captain Grimes."</p><p>"Yes, that's me!" I want to yell, but there is something in my throat, and I can't find my voice. I know my fingers are there, but they won't move. Can I move my legs? I hear a gasp, and then the word 'involuntary'.</p><p>"No!" I shout, but no one hears me. It's not involuntary. Is it? I feel the cold run up my arm and then nothing . . .</p><p>I'm awake. I know I'm awake, but I can't see and I can't speak. I can, however, feel. I think there is a tube in my throat. I don't know how long my world has consisted of pain. A day? A week? A month? I have no one to ask, and no means to do so. The cool hands are back, and I feel them on my legs, washing them gently. I feel movement, and then the same sensations on my stomach. I realize that I'm being bathed, a sponge bath, and for some reason, embarrassment floods me. I am naked, helpless, and blind. I feel myself being turned slightly, and the washcloth and soft hands stroke my back, and my buttocks. I long for the nothingness, and after a few minutes, I feel the cold and then nothing . . .</p><p>Time has ceased to exist. I float blindly, silently through consciousness and pain, although I can tell the pain is lessening every day. I wake. I feel and then I sleep a dreamless sleep. I am mostly alone. My only reprieve from the pain and nothingness is from her; her hands. Every day I look forward to those hands, they are my only tether to the world. They are soft and gentle. They caress, and they care for me. At times, I feel like an infant. At other times, however, those hands remind me that I am very much a man. I dream about the face attached to those hands, but it is ever-changing, shifting, and hidden behind a smoky haze.</p><p>I am awake, and today I most definitely do not feel like an infant. She hums a melody as she bathes me, changes my gown and my sheets. My body stirs in reaction to her, to her hands, to her feather-light touches as she brushes the gown down and over my legs. I blush internally, mortified, and desperate at the same time. My leg twitches. And I hear a voice.</p><p>Angelic and ethereal, "Doctor, I think he's awake." I have only a moment to be embarrassed before the world around me explodes in sound and touch, pain, and discomfort.</p><p>"Captain Grimes," says the disembodied voice, but it isn't hers. Not the angel's voice. It is distinctly male. "Captain Grimes. My name is Dr. Greene. If you can hear me, nod your head."</p><p>My head. He wants me to nod my head. Can I do that? I nod, although it feels more like a flop, and I hear a sigh of relief.</p><p>"Captain Grimes, there is a tube down your throat, and we're going to take it out now. It's going to be very uncomfortable, but if you can try to cough while we pull it out, that might help. Okay? Nod if you can understand me."</p><p>I nod.</p><p>"Okay, Sir, now on three. One, two, and three," he calls out.</p><p>I think I'm going to vomit. I try to cough, but it is a pathetic effort. My throat is on fire.</p><p>"Good, good. You're doing great." Dr. Greene praises, but I have no idea what it is I'm supposedly doing.</p><p>After the tube down my throat is removed, another tube is yanked out of my nose. And then he explains it all to me: the head injuries, the injuries to my eyes, to my arms and hands, and my left leg. What he can't tell me is what's next. Will I be able to use my hands? Will I be able to walk? Will I be blind? There are no answers, and I am unable to ask the questions. There are only vague guesses and maybes. Everything is maybe. If the bones in my hands heal properly; they are currently immobilized. If the pins in my leg do their job. If, if, if . . . My eyes? They won't know anything until the bandages come off… My voice? Finally, at least one real piece of information. It'll come back soon, in a day or two. My throat is just sore from the intubation. But there will be no more intravenous pain killers. I can't decide if I'm grateful for that or not. Not because of the pain, but because of the awareness . . .</p><p>I'm left alone again. I want to ask about my men, but I can't. I remember the helicopters. I remember the screaming and the pain, but my men . . . I have no idea what happened to my men.</p><p>I'm left alone to wonder. Will this be my life? Will I be a blind, bed-ridden, useless lump of flesh?</p><p>Suddenly, the flush of cold up my arm and the heavy blackness of narcotics seem like a welcome interval, and I long for the sting of the injection.</p><p>"Good morning, Captain," the angel's voice says softly. "I hope you're hungry. We're not going to try too much, but I have some Jell-O here, and some broth and juice. I'm afraid you can't jump right back into solid food just yet. Okay? I'll tell you when to open."</p><p>I hear a scraping sound and then . . . "Alright sweetie, now open."</p><p>The cold touches my tongue, and sweetness melts across its surface. In my head I know it's only Jell-O, but my body is reacting like its manna from heaven. Has it been so long? The voice coaxes me once again, and slowly but surely those tender, certain hands feed me until I'm turning away, unable to take another bite.</p><p>"Okay. You did well. You did really good." The angel says.</p><p>I want to open my eyes and see the mouth and lips that produce that voice. I want to see the face that goes with those hands. But maybe it's better this way. Maybe she's old like my grandmother was before she died. And yet, the hands feel smooth and soft, without the parchment feel of age. Maybe she's plain, like the girl Jessica who had a crush on me in high school. But no, I'm sure she isn't. And once again, she is humming a wordless tune. It tickles the back of my mind as if I should know it, but then she stops, and the imperfect memory dissolves in the recesses of my brain.</p><p>There is rustling, and she tells me she is going to clean me up. I hear the sound of water sloshing, and then the sensation of a washcloth gently cleaning my face, or the part of it that is exposed, as my bandages cover me all the way to the tip of my nose. When she pulls away, I nearly whimper at the loss of her touch. She leans over me to begin wiping my neck and I can smell her, and feel the heat of her body. She smells like fresh air and honeysuckle. I feel myself begin to stir in response to her proximity and try to make my throat work, to tell her this isn't necessary, because I'm ashamed, not of my arousal, but my helplessness. Her fingers find the ties to the hospital gown, and she eases it down my chest. Once more, she moves away to moisten the cloth, and again her hands are ghosting over me; her touch is delicate but assured, with practiced movements that are nevertheless tender, soft, and alluring. The rough fabric of the washcloth grazes over my nipples, and I can feel them harden in response. Then she helps me to sit forward, and we are touching as she repeats her motions along my back, and the scent of her envelops me completely. I want to bury my face in her neck and just smell her.</p><p>She moves away, retying the gown, and I feel her shift the blanket, and begin again at my feet, working her way up and around my cast. She reaches mid-thigh and I tense. I feel her pause, and she switches to the other leg, going no higher. Then she is done, and she adjusts the blankets over me once more. My eyes are covered, but still, I turn my head in shame.</p><p>What must I look like to her, a disfigured abomination? I feel her cool fingers stroke my arm.</p><p>"I'll see you tomorrow morning, Captain."</p><p>And she is gone. I am alone once more. Lunch and dinner are miserable affairs. Large, uncaring hands shovel the food into my mouth. Cold discomfort is now my friend, as I'm methodically assisted to relieve myself, unable to get out of bed or hold my own penis to urinate. I cry myself to sleep, although I don't know if there were any tears.</p><p>And finally, I dream. I'm in a pasture back home in Kentucky, and the sun shines above. A slight breeze stirs the taller grasses, causing them to dance and ripple. I hear her voice.</p><p>"Rick," She is hiding, my angel. I hear her voice calling to me, daring me to find her, to catch her. She teases me with promises of pleasures to come, but she's nowhere in sight. All I hear is the sound of her voice calling my name.</p><p>I'm pulled back into the world, jerked awake by the sounds of the hospital and my name being called.</p><p>"Good morning, Rick."</p><p>Rick. Not Captain Grimes, but Rick. And just like that...I'm me again.</p><p>"I hope you're hungry," she says.</p><p>I can hear the smile that graces those lips. Once more she tenderly feeds me, gently wiping my mouth with a napkin after each bite. Today it's warm, fluffy sweet French toast and thick crispy bacon, and it is divine. Whoever said hospital food is terrible, never had to eat MRE's for a week.</p><p>The food is done, and she praises me for the return of my appetite, and as a child, I'm excited that I've pleased her. Then my torment begins, as she once more begins my daily bath. She is humming that nameless, wordless tune again, and the smell of honey slays me. I can feel my breathing speed up as she washes my chest, but I must be imagining the feel of her breath across my nipples after she moves the moistened fabric away. The heat radiating from her is rolling across me in waves, and my body is responding to her with an animalistic need. As she leans over to move the blankets, I feel her breast brush across my upper arm. My breathing hitches, and for a moment I think I hear a low moan. I turn my head away, not wanting her to see my struggle to control my breathing, not wanting her to hear me pant like a dog. I'm becoming aroused and praying that she won't completely undress me today.</p><p>Once again, she begins at my feet. She starts with the left, carefully rubbing small circles with the washcloth and moving around my cast. I even think I feel the fingers of her other hand trail behind, but I know it's just my inflamed and desperate imagination. Why would an angel want to touch someone as broken as me, except for duty? And yet, I pray for just that.</p><p>She moves to my right leg, and once more I feel the touch of her skin on mine, her fingers clearly trailing behind the washcloth. By the time she reaches the middle of my inner thigh, I am hard as steel and I know it is obvious. Her hands' freeze, and again shame courses through me, but then I think I hear her breathing speed up. I feel her hand tentatively move further up, tracing a line all the way to the juncture of my thigh and my groin. I begin to whimper, and finally, I break, because I can't fucking take any more, and I find my voice. I hear a strangled, "Please," tremble from my lips.</p><p>Her hand moves away, and I feel the weight of the bed shift and I realize I've made a grave error. I've scared her away. I've scared away my angel, the one bright spot in the darkness that my life has become. Shit. I hear a door shut...has she left me..?</p><p>But then I hear footsteps, and I feel a slight shift in the bed. I can smell her near me once more and then I feel the gown move away, and cool air makes my erection twitch with anticipation. I stop breathing, terrified that any sound or movement from me will stop at this moment. And then her hand is on me, gripping me firmly, and she begins to stroke. I let out a deep groan. Her soft hand glides to the top, and collects some of the moisture there, before sliding back down and setting a delicious rhythm. My breaths become shorter and more frantic, and my hips begin to thrust as much as they can in my condition. I can feel the sensation beginning in the pit of my stomach. Then her other hand gently cups my balls, and I'm undone. I come with abandon, and I can feel my release streaming out of me in large spurts, coating my stomach. She removes her hand, and I whimper at the loss of her touch. Within moments, she has me cleaned up once more, arranged my gown, and tucked the blankets around my body.</p><p>She leans over me and tells me she'll see me in the morning, and I feel the ghost of a kiss across my lips, and she's gone, her footsteps quickly moving to the door. In a moment of clarity, I croak out, "Name?" I hear her stop. "Michonne," she whispers. The door opens and I hear her footsteps fade away.</p><p>"Michonne," I whisper to myself, and I immediately fall asleep.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I stand panting against the door of the women's room<em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>I can't believe I just did that!</em>
</p><p>I put my hands in my face and slide down the door until I'm sitting on the hard, cold tiles. I bang my head against the door in anger, anger at myself.</p><p><em>What was I thinking?</em> But I wasn't. I wasn't thinking. I just . . . acted.</p><p>I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to compel my heart to slow down<em>.</em></p><p>
  <em>I just risked my job.</em>
</p><p>A job I can't afford to lose. But more than that, I love being a nurse. It makes me feel useful. It makes me feel human again. It makes me feel like I have a purpose, an important purpose. These men risk their lives in this thankless war, and they come home to taunts, and anger, and protests. They deserve better. They are broken, and they need help and support. They need to know that someone believes in them. That, at least, is something I can give them.</p><p>I was 27 and hadn't worked in a year when the letter came. Daryl, my high school sweetheart, and husband, was Air Force Captain in the Gulf War. During the first two months, I thought I was going to go mad just sitting around the house, so I began to work at the local hospital again. I'd gone to nursing school right out of high school, but when we got married, I stopped working to keep the house.</p><p>When two Airmen showed up at my door about a year and six months after Daryl had been sent to Kuwait, I knew why they were there, and my knees gave out on me. I vaguely recall one of them picking me up and setting me on the couch. I pulled myself together. I had to remain stoic. Daryl would have been disappointed otherwise. I asked how he died and they told me that they could not give me the details, but he was killed in action and died a hero. They left shortly thereafter, clearly uncomfortable with the duty they were forced to perform.</p><p>I spent two weeks after the funeral wallowing in my misery. I had spent a third of my life with Daryl. My entire adult existence was wrapped up with him. I didn't know how to exist in this world without him. It was new territory, and I was terrified. Finally, one morning, I was watching the news, and I heard a story about a wounded veteran who had come home, and about the difficulties he faced adjusting to life back in the States. I knew then what I had to do. I went to the VA hospital in Atlanta the next day and applied for the job.</p><p>I've spent the two years earning my certifications, studying towards my degree, and working as a nurse. I love what I do, and helping these men, seeing the looks on the faces of their loved ones when they are reunited, gives me a measure of solace.</p><p>Last year, I sought comfort in the arms of one of the doctors, Phillip Blake, but he wanted more than I was ready to give. My heart was still bleeding somewhere in the deserts of Iraq.</p><p>When Captain Grimes was brought in, I felt so sorry for him. There was no one there. No Friends. No family. No girlfriend. No wife. He was terribly injured, and by all accounts, he was a hero who had saved the lives of several of his men at the cost of those injuries, but he was alone. At first, the doctors weren't sure if he would ever wake up. In addition to a broken arm, two broken hands, and a shattered leg, he had suffered injuries to his head, including his eyes. If he did wake up, it was very possible that he would be blind. They believed his retinas may have been knocked loose by the explosions, but they had no idea of the extent of the damage yet.</p><p>And although he was badly injured, from what I could see, he looked like what all men should look like. He wasn't overly muscled, like a football player, but his body was, in a word, beautiful. Even with the casts on his hands and arm, and on his left leg, I could appreciate the perfection of his form. Long lean muscles, and a perfectly sculpted chest. I had no real idea of what his face looked like, but his chin was chiseled and strong, and his lips were full and just this side shy of being effeminate. They looked soft like they were made for kissing.</p><p>The doctors kept him sedated at first, under heavy painkillers. They said that if he was to regain consciousness, at that point, he would be in excruciating pain and that his body needed some time to heal, and then, then they would dial back the medications and see if he woke up. There was one day when I was sure he was moving his leg, but the doctors insisted it was an involuntary muscle movement. I disagreed, but what do I know, right?</p><p>I do know that as the days passed, and I realized no one was coming to him, I felt my heart go out to him. I felt like he needed me just a little bit more than the others did—the ones with sweethearts, flowers, balloons, and family by their bed-sides. It is a terrible thing to be alone. I know firsthand.</p><p>And then one day, as I was bathing him, I realized he was reacting to my touch, and it was most definitely not merely an involuntary muscle spasm. I immediately alerted the doctor, and then everything happened quickly. Captain Grimes was no longer unconscious and sedated, and the doctors wanted to remove his breathing tube. It was clear they were all amazed that he understood them and was able to respond at all. It was an excellent sign. Still, even without seeing his eyes, or most of his face, I could tell he was scared. Hell, wouldn't you be? I couldn't imagine being trapped like that, immobile, unable to see, unable to speak, although, his voice should be back in a day or so. His throat was pretty inflamed from being intubated.</p><p>And then yesterday, I came in and fed him breakfast. I knew he couldn't talk yet, so I didn't want to overwhelm him. I tried not to say too much, but I was so ridiculously happy that he was awake. I found myself humming a little. I don't sing. My voice is pretty awful, but I can hum a tune, and I do love music. He was a real trooper and ate almost everything. It wasn't like it was some grand breakfast. They needed to make sure he could keep food down before they allowed him to eat solids, so it was just some cool Jell-O and warm chicken broth. Afterward, I began to clean him up, as I always did. I started with his upper body, which was so much easier now that he could sit up and lean forward on his own, and I found myself leaning into him a little more than necessary. There was a heat coming off his body and it just drew me in. I finished quickly and moved to his legs. As I worked my way up, I sensed him tensing. I could see the growing evidence of his arousal, and I felt my face flush. I moved to the other leg, stopping before reaching his groin. I knew eventually all of him would have to be washed, but yesterday I decided to give him his privacy and his dignity.</p><p>This morning, however, was a different story. For some reason, I called him by his given name. I don't know what possessed me to do it, other than the feeling that he needed something more personal to be addressed by other than his rank. He isn't just a soldier, he's a man. He seemed to respond to my presence. I don't know how to explain it, but he seemed, somehow, more alert and less despondent. He ate well, and everything was fine until I began to bathe him again. I felt his pulse and his breathing begin to speed up, and I don't know why, but I found mine responding in kind. I leaned over to adjust his blanket, and my breast brushed against his arm, sending an electric jolt through me. I let out a low moan, and I hoped he didn't hear it, but I heard his breathing hitch. I felt a blush start at my toes and flush my entire body, and I was grateful at that moment that he couldn't see me.</p><p>And then, I don't know what came over me, but as I washed him, I felt this need to touch him and trace the contours of his muscles. He is beautiful. I kept it whisper-light and hoped he just assumed it was the washcloth. But when I began to wash his legs, I wanted nothing more than to run my hands up, and up, and up. I could see that he was getting aroused, and it sent a thrill through me. I had not felt anything like that in a very long time, and I found myself getting wet. By the time I was washing his right leg, his erection was massive. I've seen many naked men in my profession. I've seen many hard, naked men. I have never seen the like in my life, and I found myself licking my lips. I stopped my hands because I knew this was so wrong, and I forced myself to pull my eyes away, but then of their own volition, my hands started to slide up his leg again, and I felt my breathing speed up. And then he spoke, a strangled, whispered plea for help, for relief, for comfort. I couldn't deny him, and I cannot deny how good it felt to hold him in my hand and bring him that pleasure.</p><p>Except now I am here, on the floor in a cold, sterile bathroom, with a pounding heart and an ache between my legs. I stand up, go to the sink, and splash water on my face. I resolve not to worry about it. I made him feel better, and isn't that what I'm supposed to do? Even to my own desperate mind, I can hear how pathetic my rationalization is, but I go with it because I have nothing else. I go to the break room and I eat my lunch, and I talk to the other nurses. I laugh when I'm supposed to, but I don't really hear what any of them are really saying.</p><p>All I can think about is him...Rick.</p><p>I finish the remaining 6-hours of my 12-hour shift and go home, after fighting every urge to go and just look in on him.</p><p>I pull into the garage of my duplex; I walk in the door, where a cold silence greets me. I skip dinner and go to bed, but sleep does not come easily. All I can think about is him.</p><p>I try to relieve the ache between my legs, and my fingers move across my slickness, and my mind drifts to images of him. I imagine the feel of his length and width stretching me, filling me, and I shudder with the release. And then I start to cry because I've just come all over the bed that I've only ever shared with my husband while dreaming of another man. Between my sobbing and self-loathing, I eventually fall asleep.</p><p>I wake up the next morning and without fully thinking it through, I call in sick.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I can't see it, but I can feel the morning sun on my body. I hear footsteps, and I find myself giddy with anticipation, but then I don't smell fresh air and honeysuckle. My smile turns into a frown when I get a brief whiff of spicy aftershave. I don't hear my angel's voice, but instead a man's gruff baritones. I die a little inside.</p><p><em>She's not coming back</em> <em>.</em></p><p>My one bright spot is gone. I recognize the voice. He's an orderly by the name of Aaron, and of all of them, he's the nicest, but he isn't my angel.</p><p><em>Goddamn, shit...</em> I suddenly think. <em>He isn't going to be bathing me, is he?</em> Thankfully, he doesn't. He feeds me, helps me with my bedpan, and then he's gone, and I'm alone. After a while, I can't take it, the pain is slowly ebbing through my entire body, and push the button attached to my wrist. Footsteps once more, but this time a floral scent comes with them. It is cloying and profuse and I don't like it.</p><p>"I'm in pain," <em>I tell her. I'm dying inside, It's physical and spiritual, but I can't tell her that,</em> "I need something for the pain."</p><p>"I'll have to check with the doctor," she replies.</p><p>While I wait, I think about how simple my life was before all of this shit. Born and raised in Frankfort, Kentucky, I'm the only child, never married, living with my Dad most of my life. My mother was only 42 when she was killed in a car accident. My father, a Veteran himself, had passed away from colon cancer four years ago at the age of 72. He never remarried, I don't ever think he got over my mother. And I understood, they'd know each other their whole lives and married right out of high school. I inherited my modest childhood home after paying for Dad's funeral and selling the house. I have 150k left to me. Single, and rapidly climbing the ranks in the military, I decided to move. My current home is in Atlanta, at Fort McPherson AFB, where I've lived for two years. Now, I'm 32 years old and I don't know what the future holds for me. I know one thing, nothing will ever be like it once was.</p><p>After what seems like an interminable length of time she returns, smothering me with sickly floret scents until I can't breathe and I want to vomit, but she helps me swallow some pills and soon I allow myself to sink into the blissful arms of sleep, as the narcotics work their way through my system. I drift off to sleep and I dream of her. That melodic and seductive voice, lulling me, her subtle, and intoxicating scent, tempting me, and her touch, her incredible healing touch...</p><p>I'm awakened from my dreaming and it pisses me off.</p><p>"It's dinner time," the voice says and, I am sat up by large uncaring hands that shovel food into my mouth...and then he tries to bathe me.</p><p>I yell at the guy, "Get the fuck off me...! Go away..!"</p><p>
  <em>I want angel hands. I want to smell her wonderful fresh summer breeze and honey-lemon tea scent. I want to hear her humming and feel her touching and stroking me. Goddamn! I want . . . I want . . . I want . . .!</em>
</p><p>They send in a doctor named Blake or Phill, and he tries to shrink my head, and I tell him to fuck off too. I don't need therapy, at least not his kind. He asks if I'm mad, and I ask if he's stupid. Of course, I'm fucking mad. Did this guy get his degree with a candy ring at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box? And because I'm fucking mad I move too much, and then I'm in pain and I'm screaming, because someone must be shoving a hot poker up my leg, and still I think it's all better than the emptiness I felt in the morning.</p><p>And then there is a sting, and coldness and nothing . . .</p><p>I dream. I dream of her, and the wide-open Kentucky meadows and sunlight dappling across a field. I dream of laughter and humming. I dream of hands, and a smile I can't quite see. I dream of a quiet voice and soft caresses across my cheek and jaw. I dream of whisper-light kisses and a minty sweet tongue. Touching, touching, touching . . .</p><p>"Rick," my angel says. "Rick, wake up." I wake up, and the heat I feel is not from the sunlight streaming through the windows, and I'm not dreaming of her voice.</p><p>"You left me," I respond quietly, and turn my head, I felt so rejected, abandoned.</p><p>At first, there is nothing, she's silent, and then she's touching me and whispering sorry, and I'm overwhelmed by the beautiful smell of her, the feel of her, the heat of her, and then her lips...her sweet lips are on mine, but she's still whispering "sorry, sorry, sorry," and I feel her tears, and my tongue darts out to catch one. And now I'm whispering comforting words, and wishing I could touch her and make her feel good.</p><p>I tell her to stop apologizing because I'm not sorry about anything except making her cry. She feeds me breakfast, she takes it slow and today the food is very good. She removes the tray, and I hear the water sloshing in the bowl, and I get hard because my dick already has it all figured out. She washes me slowly, reverently, and each touch leaves a trail of fire in its wake. And this time, she doesn't close the door, and we both know the risk, and it makes it that much sweeter, and I want to scream my pleasure out to the world because this woman is making me feel things I've never felt before, but I can't and I don't. I just feel and feel and feel.</p><p>And then she's done, and she leans over me, and I can feel her breast touching my shoulder, so I move my shoulder against it gently, and her moan is so low, and desperate and needy, that I can feel myself getting harder. She brushes my lips with hers, and they are like a sweet, minty candy cane.</p><p>"Stay," I say to her, suddenly feeling incredibly needy.</p><p>"I can't."</p><p>"Come back."</p><p>"I will."</p><p>And then she's gone for a little while and I relax as much as I can. The doctors come, and they take me to x-ray and one of my arms gets a new cast, a smaller one, and I can feel my fingertips again, and I can move my arm, and it's heaven. They tell me not to do too much, not to overexert myself, but I can't stop touching things. I touch my face and my chest. I touch the rails on the bed and each sheet and blanket. I touch the cast on my leg. Then I repeat it all. They don't know what it's like not to see and not to touch. So, I touch and touch, and touch, until my arm throbs from the pain, but it's good pain and I smile, and I fall asleep for a little while.</p><p>I wake up and it's dark outside. I've slept through dinner, but that's okay because I got what I needed. I got my lady, my bright spot, and I got my hand back, and the world is a little less shitty now. I have no idea what time it is, but it is very quiet, so I figure it's the middle of the night and everyone is sleeping.</p><p>Then I hear the door open and close, and footsteps, and oh God in heaven yes, lemons and honey, and I smile.</p><p>"You came back."</p><p>"I can't stay away."</p><p>Those words say more than any others. She's as drawn to this as I am, and my stomach clenches with happiness. My smile gets impossibly bigger.</p><p>"Come here."</p><p>And she comes over and sits on the bed, and I raise my hand, and she takes it and guides it to her mouth, and kisses my fingertips. I trace the contours of her mouth and then make my way around her soft delicate face.</p><p>"Beautiful…"</p><p>Then my fingers make their way to her head, and even though it's awkward and the cast gets in the way, I grab her long, thick locs in my hand and pull her to my mouth. I kiss her gently, enjoying the feel of her lips on mine, soft and full, and then I swipe my tongue against her lips, and we both groan because we just know that this is so right. Her lips part and I slide my tongue in, tasting her, and then her tongue is battling with mine and the kiss becomes more urgent. She straddles me, and we continue kissing, and the weight of her on my body is so welcomed, another link to the world that I'd nearly forgotten. Her chest is crushed to mine as we continue to kiss and lick and nip at each other's mouths and necks and ears. She sits up, and a moment later she takes my hand and guides it to her breast. She raises her blouse and moves her bra, and my fingertips graze her skin, and I feel her nipple harden under my touch. I pinch and she moans softly, her hips grinding into my hardness. I move to the other breast, my hand precisely knowing the way even though I can't see, and I enjoy her reaction as I repeat myself.</p><p>"I want to taste you," I whisper.</p><p>Her breathing hitches, and then she moves off me for a moment, before straddling me once again. Only this time, she straddles my face and I realize she had removed her panties. I can smell her sweet scent, and she's still honeysuckle, but she's also woman and sex, and I plunge my tongue into her because I just have to feel her on my tongue. She muffles her scream, and her hips jerk reflexively. Now I'm sucking and nibbling and licking, and she's so fucking wet and good. She's whimpering and whispering, "oh God, oh God," and then she starts pumping her hips against my face and I know she's close, so I suck on her clit and work my tongue over it until I hear her strained, "Rick!" Then I feel a gush of moisture on my chin and my mouth, and I lick and lick everything she gives me. I can feel her legs trembling on either side of me. She slides down and kisses me again.</p><p>"Thank you," she whispers to me.</p><p>I'm wondering why she's thanking me when she's just given me this gift. Then her hand slides down, and she's palming me through the hospital gown, and I can't hold back my moan, but she stifles it with her mouth on mine.</p><p>But then she breaks away and I whimper from the loss. I suddenly feel the cool night air hit my dick just before I feel her mouth come down on it, and it takes everything in me not to scream out loud. It's hot, wet, and insistent, and her tongue is running up and down, and just as I'm getting really into it, she moves again…" Michonne<em>?"</em> Just as I began to beg, I feel her, and she's lowering herself onto me, and my brain just shuts down because I can't think at all, I can only feel. I feel her tight and hot around me. I feel her slick and wet and soft. I feel her start to move slowly, sliding me out and taking me back in, and the world starts to spin and spin, until all that's left is me and her, and I want to just stay…buried in her until time ends because nothing will ever feel this good again.</p><p>All too soon I feel that familiar clenching in my stomach and I try to hold it back, but I know I can't, and I bring my awkward, cast-covered hand between us and use my fingertips on her, and I beg her to come with me.</p><p>So, she does, and I come hard. I'm moaning, and she's whimpering, "Rick, Rick, Rick…" until she collapses on top of me.</p><p>She moves to my side, and cuddles into me, her hand idly playing with my chest. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, I'm alone in bed and the sunlight is warming my face, and I can still smell honey on my pillow, and I smile.</p><p>"I hope that smile is for me," she says from the other side of the room, and I can feel my smile widen more.</p><p>"Good morning, angel," I say, and I hear her chuckle. Then she asks, "Why do you call me that?"</p><p>How do I answer her? How can I explain? How do I tell her about her hands, and her smell, and her tenderness? I open my mouth to explain, but my words don't come out and I lamely reply, "Because that's what you are." She laughs again, and I know she's laughing at me, but it's okay because it's a beautiful sound, and I wish I could see her face when she's laughing. I feel the bed shift, and I can smell the bacon. My body stirs slightly from her proximity, and I think, I've just become a morning person.</p><p>She finishes feeding me, and I feel her arranging my gown and my sheets, and she whispers, "I'll be right back." The orderly comes in and helps me relieve myself, and then she returns, and I jokingly ask, "What? No bath today?"</p><p>"Nope," she replies, and I can hear the nervous smile in her voice. "The doctor is coming up in a few minutes. They're going to remove the bandages on your eyes."</p><p>"Ah. So, in a few minutes, I'm going to know if I'm blind or not."</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>I'm excited and terrified all at once. Excited at the prospect of seeing her, and terrified that I might never get to.</p><p>"Stay with me," I say to her, no longer caring how needy I sound.</p><p>"Why would I ever leave?" Her reply sends warm stems through my body. I've never wanted any form of eternity until now, I never saw the point. This feeling is so strange; it stretches throughout my whole body. It's overwhelming, yet makes me feel complete. I'm too wrapped in my own emotion to reply, so I simply smile and nod.</p><p>A minute later Dr. Greene arrives and explains a few things. My eyes will take time to adjust to the light, I may see spots and stuff like that. Now they're slowly unwinding the bandages from my head. I feel her hand slip into mine, grasping my fingers around the plaster of my cast. I squeeze as best as I can, grateful for her presence.</p><p>Finally, the doctor finishes and they slide the last two pads off my eyes. I take a deep breath and open my eyes.</p><p> </p><p>  </p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>I spend my sick day doing household chores, including a few things I've put off for a while. I start by going to the local lawn and garden shops, buying flowers and shrubs to plant on my side of the duplex. I then start planting some flowers in pots on my porch and end up getting rid of fallen sticks and weeds in my backyard. I'm turning my once barren backyard into my sanctuary that it becomes my own place of serenity. To watch the squirrels play, to absorb the sweet birdsong as if it were nectar, these are the simple joys of the backyard that is rich in nature.</p><p>As the day progresses, I make my way back into the house and organize my closets. There was a calmness to cleaning the house, feeling the furniture glide over the wooden floor and the soft sound of the broom as the house is cleaned it feels lighter and brighter, becoming a place that invites deep breaths. I believe when you have learned this skill you can transfer it to many areas of life: emotional, practical, and academic. After all, that comes before the care of others, regardless of how much you desire to do so.</p><p>I try to immerse myself in meditation and physical labor so that my mind doesn't have time to wander and think about him... about Captain Grimes... Rick... Except that late at night, when I lay here alone in my bed, I don't have anything to distract me from my thoughts. I'm conflicted, and I feel guilty, and whenever I think of him, I feel an ache begin between my legs. It's late and I cry myself to sleep once more.</p><p>I dream of Daryl, he approaches me smiling, looking handsome in his uniform and I cringe with shame when I see him; but Daryl doesn't condemn me. He smiles and tells me he loves me. He tells me he wants me to be happy. He tells me he wants me to live my life. He kisses me goodbye one last time, and when I wake up, I feel lighter than I have in two years.</p><p>I go to work and the first thing I do is say good morning when Rick wakes up.</p><p>"You left me." He says and turns from me.</p><p>I stop breathing and guilt consumes me because he's right. He needed me and I left him. And before I can even think about it, I'm next to him and I'm apologizing and kissing him and crying, because I know I never want him to feel that again. And his lips are soft and welcoming, and they meet mine with abandon. Then he licks my tears, and I know he is forgiving me. I apologize for falling apart on him. I'm the caregiver here, right? But he tells me to stop because the only thing he's sorry for is making me cry. He eats breakfast and I bathe him, and he's ready for me before I even finish his back. The door is open, but I can't bring myself to care, because I don't want to leave his side. We're as quiet and stealthy as mice, and the boldness of it makes me squirm and want to rub my legs together.</p><p>But then I have to go because I have other patients. I lean over to brush a kiss against his lips, and he rubs against my breast. The low moan that escapes me is full of my need and desire, and it takes everything I have not to attack him right then and there. He begs me to stay, but I can't, and I promise to return. I already know that I always will.</p><p>I flutter through my day, distracted but happy. I check on him later, and I see that they've changed one of his casts, but he's sleeping. I decide to go home and shower, and get some dinner, before coming back later. I need to come back when there aren't so many people around to ask questions, although when I do return it is with a book, because reading to an injured soldier is always a noble thing to do.</p><p>He is still sleeping, so I sit in the room and read for a while. I go to the bathroom, and when I return, I see that he is awake, and I find myself smiling. I can see by the moonlight streaming through the windows that he is smiling, and he says, "You came back."</p><p>I tell him that I can't stay away because it's god's honest truth and his smile gets even bigger.</p><p>"Come here," he says, and there is nowhere else I want to be.</p><p>He touches my cheek, my nose, lips, and chin, "Beautiful." He says and I kiss his fingertips.</p><p>He touches my hair, and I don't even mind because this is him, and he's touching me finally. He pulls me to him and our lips meet and forget all the old proverbs about boys and girls, because he's sugar and spice, soft lips and hot tongue, and I melt into him. I've moved on top of him because I need more, I need to feel all of him against me, to hold him to me, and to stop being alone. The taste of his skin under my tongue is spicy and masculine, and I plant open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and behind his ear, reveling in his body's reaction to me and the power it gives me. I sit up and bring his hand to touch me. His fingertips play me like an expert, and I lose myself in the sensations, rolling my hips and seeking friction against the ache between my legs with his hardness.</p><p>"I want to taste you," he says.</p><p>My heart skips a beat, and my panties are now drenched. I climb off him and remove my scrubs, undergarments, and arrange myself above his face, and oh my god, and, this is…it's… it's… unbelievable, and I want to scream! His mouth is soft and wet, and his tongue probes me and teases me, bringing me ever higher and higher. He is going to kill me with pleasure. In no time, I'm bucking and grinding, and he's licking and sucking, and then ecstasy pulses through me, and I'm moaning and whimpering as he slowly brings me back to down to Earth. I kiss him because I need to thank him, and I can taste myself on his tongue, mixed with his own sugar and spice, but I need more, he needs more, and I reach my hand down and stroke him. I hear him whimper in distress when I move away, but as soon as I take him into my mouth, I hear his groan of pleasure and smile. He is large and pulsing in my mouth, and I love the way he tastes and feels, but I need more, he needs more. I straddle him once again, and slowly lower myself onto him. Oh God...! nothing has ever felt more wonderful than him inside of me. It is so right, so perfect. I slowly move, sliding him in and out of me, and enjoy every strong, thick inch of him, stretching and filling me. As our rhythm builds, the world falls away. It is just us, and I'm feeling, feeling, feeling, for the first time in so long, and then he's begging me to come with him, and his fingers find me, and brush against me once, twice, and I'm undone and crying out his name.</p><p>He's thrusting deep and hard and I hear him chanting, "Angel, angel, angel."</p><p>I clench and shudder above him as I feel him thrust into me a final time, and I collapse against his chest. When I catch my breath, I move to curl against his side. I trace idle patterns on his chest until he falls asleep. I stay with him a while longer, but I know that I cannot be found here later, so I kiss him lightly before stealing away, like a criminal, but one with a very willing accomplice.</p><p>I decide not to go home, and I grab a cup of coffee and early breakfast at the twenty-four-hour diner a block away from the hospital. I'm ravenous, and I find myself smiling constantly as I re-experience our time together. Every time I wrap my lips around my fork, I imagine it's him, and I know that I can't wait until the next time. I feel empowered and sexy, and freer than I have a million years. My favorite waitress named Sasha refills my coffee and gives me a knowing smile. I blush and look down, and she just laughs and walks away, but I know she knows what I'm feeling, and it's a sisterhood of sorts.</p><p>I go back to work at the start of my shift, and I should be tired, but I'm not. I'm eager. I watch him sleep for a few minutes, and then I see that he is waking up, and I start walking to him. The most glorious smile graces his face, and I ask if it's for me.</p><p>"Good morning, my angel," he says, and I laugh and ask him why he calls me that.</p><p>He pauses like he's trying to come up with a reason, and in the intervening time, I've reached the bedside.</p><p>He responds, "Because that's what you are," and I laugh at the simplicity of his answer, but he smiles with me, in on the joke, because we both know that there's no explaining something like this.</p><p>I feed him, and I can tell he is responding to me, and once again, it makes me feel powerful, sexy. When he's done, I carefully wipe his face and ghost a kiss across his lips, whispering, "I'll be right back."</p><p>I send in the orderly to help him relieve himself because I know he won't want me to do that for him.</p><p>While I wait, Dr. Greene approaches and tells me that he's going to remove the bandages from Rick's eyes. I feel my heart stutter with fear and anticipation. What if he can't see? How would he deal with being permanently disabled? And what if he can? Will the sight of me be all that he expected? Has he imagined me as a supermodel type? Will he like my dark skin? Will I disappoint him?</p><p>I go back to him, and he asks about his bath, and I can hear the happiness in his voice. I try to smile and I tell him that no, they are coming to remove the bandages from his eyes. I can tell by the set of his jaw that he's worried.</p><p>He turns to me and pleads, "Stay with me."</p><p>I smile and tell him the truth, as I also make it a promise, "Why would I ever leave?"</p><p>Dr. Greene comes in and begins explaining things to him. I close the blinds, dimming the light in the room. I can tell he's nervous, so I reach for his hand, and I don't care that I'm mostly holding on to the plaster cast; I tangle my fingers with him, and he squeezes. Dr. Greene finally removes the final bandages and pads from Rick's eyes. He opens them and blinks as if in pain. What little light is in the room still feels bright to him, and I feel hope flutter in my chest. He blinks several times, and I see him search the room.</p><p>His eyes land on me and he whispers, "Beautiful."</p>
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<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>At first, everything is way too bright, like when you walk outside on a summer day after being in a dark movie theater. The brightness slowly starts to fade, and I can see blurry shapes. My eyes feel sore, dry, I blink and blink, trying to focus my eyes. I realize I can see the window clearly, the clear blue sky! I bring my focus back to my side.</p><p>And that's when I see her…I finally see her and oh fuck, she's so, so beautiful!</p><p>Her eyes are so big, sultry, and perfectly shaped, long fluttering eyelashes stare at me with such an inviting gaze. Her features soft and feminine, her figure petite, yet curvy, so delicate; in those pristine white scrubs, she truly looks like an angel. Her expression is worried and hopeful all at the same time; Her stunning doe eyes look at me, trying to discern what is happening in my crazy head, so I smile at her.</p><p>"Beautiful," I whisper, not really caring if the doctors heard me or not.</p><p>I see a silent tear slide down her face, but before I can say anything else to her, Dr. Greene is in front of me, flashing his penlight in my eyes and asking a million questions.</p><p>"Try moving your eyes very slowly to the right...now left, up…up and down…good job...Any pain?"</p><p>I shake my head no and hold her hand tight because even though she promised she'd stay, a little part of me is afraid that the angel is just going to disappear now that her work is done. I am still in awe, she's so beautiful, inside and out.</p><p>Dr. Greene finishes his questions and says something about medications and physical therapy. I'm already tuning him out. My eyes shift back to her, and I squeeze her fingers tighter. She's looking at me like I'm some sort of miracle when the only miraculous thing in the room is her. Everything is really quiet for a minute, while Dr. Greene writes on his chart and then clears his throat.</p><p>Her eyes dart from me to him all scared, and I'm thinking oh shit, he knows, but I don't take my eyes off her face, not after all this time, and the doctor just smiles and says, "I'll check in on you later, Captain," and leaves with an all-knowing smile on his face like he's just made some big discovery.</p><p>"Come here," I say, and I pull her to me, and her lips find mine, and I whisper, "I love you."</p><p>Her tears fall, salty and hot, but she's kissing me back and it's like I'm more alive than I've ever been. In that kiss was the sweetness of passion, a million loving thoughts condensed into a moment. In this kiss I am home.</p><p>"I love you too, " She kisses me again, "No one is coming for you, are they?"</p><p>I shake my head no, "You're here, that's all I need."</p><p>"So, my place then?"</p><p>"Yes, take me home."</p><p>My darling smiles and helps me get into my clothes. My wound, the injury to my flesh will heal long before I can heal my brain. Trauma is that way. Yet with time, with Michonne, I will be well once more. I'm in uniform again, but not for long... I hope.</p><p>I sign my hospital discharge papers and I realize how long I've been here. It's surreal, twenty-one days later, I'm finally able to leave the hospital. As I walk into the room Aaron comes in, "Aww, shit, I don't need that!" I grumble at the nice man because they're making me ride in this fucking wheelchair!</p><p>And she's laughing at me because I'm pouting like a moody teen, but damn it, it's emasculating, you know?</p><p>On my way out another officer in uniform nods at me and I nod back, and when Michonne and I get out to the sidewalk, I hurry and get my gimp ass up and follow her to her sporty Jeep Wrangler. I climb in, and I know I'm just fucking lucky that I can.</p><p>One thing is for sure, I'm going to marry her. I'm going to ask her very soon because I have to make sure my angel isn't going anywhere. She's my angel, and I know she's going to keep helping other soldiers, and I'm so proud of her for that, but I want my ring on her finger, and I want them to know she's mine...all mine...forever.</p><p>The ride home is quick and sweet. On a quiet street a few miles away from the busy Atlanta hospital is Michonne's quaint two-story duplex and just like her, it's beautiful. I inhale the scent of the freshly mowed lawn and smile at a garden full of floral splendor.</p><p>Inside, her home is just as warm and welcoming as she is. The home held the scent of fresh laundry with traces of her signature honey. The soft grey walls of the entryway connect the open living room, dining room, and kitchen which are adorned with colorful African art; visions that soothed right to the soul. The floor is a blend of slate grey carpet, and russet hardwood floors. The kitchen had a white backslash that complimented the white and grey speckled tile and countertops. My eyes are drawn to the African vase of flowers upon the teak wood table. The flowers are fresh, some open and others in bud.</p><p>I smile contently. I love being here in this tranquil suburbia, the eye in the storm of this world.</p><hr/><p>He looks so hot in his uniform, brooding, I'm smiling from ear to ear while lacing-up his boots with pride. I was a little worried when Dr. Greene made it apparent that he was aware of Rick and me. But when he provided us with his wise and honest smile of approval, I knew he would be supportive of us. I shouldn't be surprised; Dr. Herschel Greene was an army medic who married a nurse back in Vietnam.</p><p>These military officers had signed on to become a hero, to make the kind of sacrifice that could bring a better world into reality. The least I can do is always be there for them. Although I will never be there for them in the way I was with Rick, I will always be there, nonetheless.</p><p>Usually, I jump on the highway, one mile, and the next exit left, and three city blocks are my home. It is less than five minutes from the hospital. But today, I take the extra five-minute scenic route, so Rick can enjoy the sites and get a better view of the neighborhood I…we live in.</p><p>All my gardening and cleaning paid off. I was relieved to see that my neighbor Noah kept his promise and mowed my lawn today. And Rick's expression told me he was impressed with my modest home. I showed him around and we settle in nicely.</p><p>"I usually cook soup for the week and pair it with homemade loaves of bread and salads for the workweek," I inform him while pulling out the fresh ingredients from the fridge. Cooking soothes me. This is how I keep mom's memory alive, by cooking from the heart, being creative, always nurturing with what I make.</p><p>"Do you need any help, is there anything I can do?" He asked still taking in the new environment and stepping nearby.</p><p>I shake my head no and usher him to the bench by the counter; "Just keep me company."</p><p>"There is no place on Earth, I'd rather be." In those blue eyes are the sweetest filaments of passion in ice,<strong> "</strong>what am I watching you make?"</p><p>"Chicken-Andouille Gumbo with Roasted Potatoes and Cheddar Biscuits."</p><p>"I'm sure it will be amazing."</p><p>His face blushing was that of pink champagne, turning into the blush of roses, he is unable to hide what is truly on his mind. We casually chat for a while and just like he's always lived here, he makes us a glass of lemonade. After a while, I gather the guts to ask him something that's been on my mind.</p><p>"Do you regret being a soldier?"</p><p>I ask because I've always wanted to know, I wanted to ask my dad and Daryl too. I feel I can ask or say anything to Rick and he'll be honest and understand.</p><p>"There are times I wondered about being a soldier if I'd made the right choice in this world. People need a safe life, we need stability, because if we lose that if we can't help ourselves… or at least that's what my heart tells me. My heart also knows, I'd rather carry food aid than a gun. I'd rather drop emergency aid than bombs. I'd rather build communities up than destroy what generations have built. I'm still hoping for that day when peace becomes reality and the institutions that conduct war become institutions that conduct peaceful logistics and ground support. But I'll still were my uniform with pride. I'll recall my memories with pride."</p><p>I nod my head, understanding fully. I know there was a part of him he'd locked away to do this job, and he'd suffer if he ever tried to unpack it. It's part of the sacrifice protectors make. His conscience was clear, I could tell, yet we aren't born for this, it is a thing we can become when the need arises. The soldier in all loving heart signed on as a protector, realizing what he sought to protect in others he sacrificed in himself.</p><p>There is a fraction of a moment between our eyes and the smile and our mouth follows, and that anticipation is as exquisite a feeling like anything I've ever felt.</p><p>"Come here," he says, pulling me in by the waist. With his flexible arm-cast, he can wrap his arms around me. In uniform he knew his job, in my arms, he knows his job too.</p><hr/><p>
  
  
  
</p><p>
  <strong>One Month Later</strong>
</p><p>My old house was a medley of memories, of photographs adorning the walls, each of them conjuring the emotions of those sweet eternal moments. My former home is scheduled to close next week and I actually get a lot more money than I expected. My savings from Dad's house paired with my military benefits affords me time to figure out the kind of job or career I want. For right now, I'm still processing the fact that I'm alive, well, and with an earthbound angel named Michonne.</p><p>I'm finally off the pain meds and we decided to celebrate that. I had my first beer in what seems like years, she had a glass of wine. Yesterday was my last physical therapy session too. I needed something to do with my time while Michonne is at work so I signed up to be a volunteer at the local animal shelter and the Boys and Girls Club. Michonne is one semester away from her Bachelor of Science degree and is steadily moving up in the ranks at the hospital.</p><p>And although it was not easy at first, we've talked about her husband, and about her life before me, just like I told her about my life as a soldier. We've both lost everyone, and maybe that's our connection. She seems to think so, but I don't know. All I know is that we've got each other now, and it's a precious gift.</p><p>She makes me dinner and by the smell, it's probably going to be the best dinner I've ever had. She's humming that tune again and suddenly it hits me, the name of that song, and I smile because it's "Angel of the Morning," and how fucking appropriate is that? I hum along with her, and soon we are both singing aloud, smiling, and having fun.</p><p>Just before dark dinner is ready and just as I predicted, it is the best food I've ever eaten, and while we eat, I find out that almost all my breakfasts didn't come from the hospital kitchen but hers. For the first time since all this crazy shit started, tears form in my eyes, but I manage to shake them off. After dinner, I clear the table while she is at the sink washing dishes. In the middle of the kitchen, and even though it's awkward, with the cast still on my leg, I get down on my knees.</p><p>"Please Michonne, marry me, make me the happiest man on Earth," I beg her to spend the rest of her life with me, because somewhere out there in the desert and hills of Iraq, God, Christ, Jehovah, or Buddha, you pick, took pity on us two mortals and threw our paths together, and nothing in my life has ever been righter.</p><p>Dr. Greene, of all people, helped me pick the engagement ring; turns out he's quite the romantic. When I open the little black velvet box she gasps with delight at her gift and my proposal.</p><p>"Oh my god Rick, I thought you'd never ask!" She throws her arms around me, and without any hesitation, says yes.</p><p>I pick her up and carry her to the couch because I am better, but even I know I'm not getting up the stairs carrying her with my leg-cast on. So, I make love to her there, on the couch, and this time I can touch her, and move with her, and make her scream aloud. My fingers trace her entire body, and my tongue follows in their path. I bury my face between her legs because I'll never tire of how good she tastes; I nearly come when I hear her screams and taste her juices. I slide into her and hold her face in my hands, looking her in her passion-filled eyes and it is a vision to behold as I bring her to the edge again and again.</p><p>I realize that in her ecstasy is my salvation, the home I've needed all along and I chant, "My darlin angel, angel, angel," as I find my indescribable release.</p><p>While in the hospital, I was finally told about what happened to the men under my command. I was honorably discharged from my active duties, placed on reserves, and awarded a bronze star for valor, but it did not appease my anger at the deaths of so many. During my recuperation, there were a few anti-war protests, but Michonne and I said nothing. I was, and still am, angry about the wasted lives, but it brought us together, and for that, I will be forever grateful. So, we stay silent, and we love each other, and we make love like the world is ending because we've both learned that you never know when it will. Perhaps one day I'll process all this fully, rid myself of the trauma. Until then, to all those who still serve, to all those working for peace and sustainability, I salute you.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> <strong>The Begining</strong> </em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N: Hi! I do not have a follow-up planned at the moment. Thank you! #keeprichonnealive ~Muse~</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Song Inspiration:</p><p>Angel of the morning: P. P. Arnold (version)</p><p>There'll be no strings to bind your hands, not if my love can't bind your heart<br/>And there's no need to take a stand for it was I who chose to start<br/>I see no need to take me home, I'm old enough to face the dawn<br/>Maybe the sun's light will be dim and it won't matter anyhow<br/>If morning's echo says we've sinned, well, it was what I wanted now<br/>And if we're the victims of the night, I won't be blinded by the light...<br/>Just call me angel of the morning angel<br/>Just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby<br/>Just call me angel of the morning angel<br/>Then slowly turn away from me<br/>Through the tears of the day of the years baby, baby, baby<br/>Just call me angel of the morning angel<br/>Just touch my cheek before you leave me baby (Trust we baby?)<br/>Just call me angel of the morning angel (Angel of the morning)<br/>Just touch my cheek before you leave me (Trust we baby?)<br/>(Just call me) Just call me angel of the morning angel (Angel of the morning)<br/>Just touch my cheek before you leave me (Trust we baby?)<br/>(Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby)<br/>Just call me angel of the morning angel<br/>Then slowly turn away from me<br/>Through the tears of the day of the years baby, baby, baby<br/>Just call me angel of the morning angel<br/>Just touch my cheek before you leave me baby (Trust we baby?)<br/>Just call me angel of the morning angel (Angel of the morning)<br/>Just touch my cheek before you leave me (Trust we baby?)<br/>(Just call me) Just call me angel of the morning angel (Angel of the morning)<br/>Just touch my cheek before you leave me (Trust we baby?)<br/>(Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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